


(Practical) Jokes

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: April Fools' Day, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles engage in a prank war that goes awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Practical) Jokes

The prank war is ill-timed, ill-advised, and ill-equipped, but Stiles is still in the midst of it, and he is going to _win_ , dammit. It started with a toilet incident that he made Scott vow never to speak of again, continued on with soy-sauce flavored lemonade masquerading as Coke, deviated to include several instances of them commandeering and modifying one another’s cell phones in increasingly obscure ways, and is fast gearing up to a glitter attack the likes of which no one at Beacon Hills High has ever seen. 

It’s been fun in a way he thought he’d never have again. Scott’s smile is brighter than it has been in years; wide and playful and affectionate. Stiles always makes sure he’s jumping on the spot with boundless energy, or running away, or looking at almost anyone else with an assessing glance, so Scott won’t hear the skip in his heart and pinpoint it for its true origins. 

“I can’t believe you convinced me to help you,” Lydia says, testing the wire inside Scott’s locker with a delicate tug. 

“Lydia, we both know it didn’t take much convincing. If you didn’t wanna do it, you wouldn’t be here. Fact.”

Lydia turns a sharp, indulgent smile his way. “This is why I let you talk to me on occasion.”

“Aww, Lyds, you love me,” Stiles returns, clutching his hands to his chest. 

She rolls her eyes at him, but there’s a dimple in her cheek which tells him he’s not wrong. It warms him, even though he isn’t infatuated anymore. It turns out Lydia’s friendship is nine thousand times better than pining over her imaginary love. 

The wire’s working perfectly, so Stiles attaches their custom built container of rainbow glitter. He’s looking forward to Scott unwittingly pulling the trigger for their charge. He won’t know what hit him. 

“This is going to be amazing,” Stiles intones, careful with every syllable. He grins at Lydia. 

“Record it for me.”

“You’re not staying to watch this magnificence yourself?”

“I can’t. I’m already late for my study session with Boyd.”

Lydia leaves before Stiles can so much as open his mouth to ask another question, like ‘BOYD?’, heels clicking against the stone flooring. Stiles scurries behind the corner and has his phone ready to record. Scott has to go to his locker before Econ, because Stiles convinced him he wouldn’t be wanting to carry around the stupidly heavy textbook Finstock assigned them all for the term. Thankfully, Scott didn’t think to say, ‘wolfy powers, dude’, like Stiles had been expecting. He’d had ten other reasons on the tip of his tongue, but none of them had been needed. Sometimes it scares him how Scott trusts him so implicitly. 

Stiles stands waiting, counting down from ten in his mind. Scott ambles into the corridor, a small smirk on his face like he’s thinking about something good. Stiles quashes down the ache that’s associated with that, steadies his breathing. Stiles has known Scott’s locker combination longer than Scott has, and in fact, can get into his locker about ten seconds quicker, so the anticipation reaches nearly unbearable heights by the time Scott finally opens the door. 

There’s a flash, then a pop, and Scott’s vaulting backwards, squeaking in the least manly fashion Stiles has ever heard. 

“Oh my God, oh my God!” Scott shrieks, before looking down at his arms and widening his eyes at them covered in red, purple and blue flecks that will leave remnants for months. 

Scott sparkles like sunshine on the sea, like stars on a cloudless night, like asshole vampires in shitty teen romance films. He is fucking glorious. 

And he immediately swings in Stiles’ direction, eyes narrowed treacherously. 

This is a terrible time for Scott to remember about his wolfy powers. No matter how quickly Stiles turns and runs, Scott is quicker. He makes it as far as the gym’s locker room, which is a total of eleven yards away, before Scott’s pouncing on him from behind, twisting him around and rubbing up and down him like an amorous boa constrictor. 

“If I have to suffer with this all day, so do you,” Scott says, smearing a hand all over Stiles’ face. 

Scott is annoyingly perceptive and attentive when he has the time to be, so Stiles has learned to obfuscate with humor. It’s the little things. The heartfelt words said with a sarcastic inflection, the teasing over-the-top come-on, the shoulder nudge that’s really a necessary point of contact. It’s been that way for years now, and Stiles can’t think of any good reason to alter a perfectly workable solution to this problem he has. Especially since Scott _doesn’t_ actually seem to notice or care. Scott apparently labors under the assumption that this is who Stiles is, his natural hilarity a trait that cannot be changed, and maybe it’s been that way for long enough it’s true.

Naturally, the lycanthropy complicates matters. He can’t outright lie anymore. He did once and the results were a half hour interrogation filled with the saddest goddamn eyes he’d ever seen. But he can’t -- he just cannot --- tell the truth either. It becomes an exercise in balance, in mental arithmetic. If he takes away this phrase and adds this raised eyebrow, will he have the correct answer? 

“Please don’t stop,” Stiles moans, rubbing back up against Scott with a sinuous roll of his hips. “This feels so good.”

It’s supposed to make Scott pull away with a grossed-out laugh, have him roll his eyes, tap Stiles on the upper arm. All it does is send the solitary still-changing freshman out the door with an apathetic sigh. Scott takes his phone, tosses it onto the bench with no regard that it’s hideously expensive and very precious. He presses closer, bracketing Stiles with his forearms.

He’s solid and secure in the best kind of way and he looks different like this, more mature, someone to be awed by. Scott’s always just been _Scott_. His best friend, his confidant, his responsibility, his protection. He’s never really seemed other, not even when he was under moon madness. It’s unsettling, but it doesn’t make him uncomfortable, it makes him curious.

“Yeah?” Scott asks, voice low and breathy, eyes intense. 

Stiles is in a quandary. It’s a veritable quicksand of difficulties and strife. There really don’t seem to be any appropriate responses, because it’s entirely likely this is just one more in a long line of hoaxes they’ve been pulling on one another in the lead up to April. But what if it’s not? What if Scott means it? 

“Yeah,” he eventually replies, challenging. He’s going to let Scott dictate how far this goes.

It’s pretty damn far, judging by the way Scott smooths his hands over Stiles’ arms, pushes one of his legs between Stiles’. They’re close enough their stomachs brush and it doesn’t seem to matter that he knows there’s at least three layers of material between them, the heat makes Stiles feel like they’re touching skin to skin. This is very much the kind of thing that’s going to make all of Stiles’ hard work null and void. Sure, he’ll be able to pass off whatever arousal Scott can sense as a simple case of proximity, but it’ll hurt to fake the laugh and pretend. 

He looks down and mock-grimaces at the smattering of glitter now coating his front. 

“This was a terrible idea.”

Scott grinds forward again, fingers wrapping around Stiles’ wrists, pushing him gently but firmly against the wall. “I don’t know, I kinda like it.”

“But it’s not that funny.”

“No,” Scott says, softly. “So we should probably clean it all off.” 

Scott eases away for a moment, but doesn’t release Stiles’ right wrist. He leads him toward the showers. Stiles doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t want to, but part of him thinks he should. Like this might have gone too far. At some point, Scott’s going to have to break. Or… or maybe he won’t. Perhaps this is something Stiles can have. 

“You know it’s gonna take more than one shower, don’t you?” Stiles says, needing to say or do something. 

He’s given the filthiest smile in return. Stiles didn’t even know that expression existed in Scott’s facial vocabulary. This is feeling less like an elaborate ruse and more like an opportunity. Stiles has faced werewolves, a kanima, an evil old geezer, and his dad’s attempt at cooking, and none of them felt as dangerous nor thrilling as this. It isn’t just that anyone could walk in on them at any moment, or that Stiles is depressingly inexperienced. It’s the notion of uncharted territory, of fantasy combining with reality. 

Scott lets go of Stiles’ wrist and leans against the beige tiles of the shower room. Stiles has read about come hither and bedroom eyes before, but he’d never really seen them. They’ve certainly never been directed toward him. But it puts him at a disadvantage because Scott’s expecting him to act again and there’s every chance he’ll fuck this up. 

It’s trust that has him stepping close and winding his hands around Scott’s waist. Hope that has him easing up the hem of his shirt and stroking over-active fingers against the soft skin there. Audacity that has him claiming a kiss. 

Scott hums into his mouth; a long, happy sound that reverberates between them. His lips part and he sneaks out his tongue, licks along Stiles with a querying tentativeness which is equal parts sweet and exacting. Stiles starts to realize that this probably isn’t a case of Scott rolling with the punches, that he isn’t being rash and adventurous. Scott’s never been the rash and adventurous one in this relationship. Even though it can sometimes be to his detriment, he thinks things through. 

So he must have thought about this. About their mouths sliding wetly together, their hands gliding up and down, wherever they can reach. He must have imagined Stiles canting his hips and grinding into the trunk of his body, one hand scrabbling at the tiles next to his head as the other pulls his shirt up and up, not caring about the sprinkles of glitter gusting into the air. He must have pictured the gratitude in Stiles’ eyes as he’s finally allowed to look his fill. Scott shucks his shirt up higher, pulls it over his head. More glitter cascades over them, but Stiles really doesn’t care. Scott’s half-naked before him and he doesn’t have to deflect his gaze. 

Stiles takes off his own shirt, takes it a step further and toes off his shoes and socks, peels down his jeans and boxer briefs. He quirks an eyebrow at Scott, half-invitation, half-dare. There’s no need to be self-conscious, Scott already knows he’s lithe and pale as opposed to his own more muscular and tan. He kind of _is_ self-conscious anyway, but he won’t admit it. Scott’s lips open on a gasp and he gets handsy before Stiles can strip him, fingers traveling the expanse of Stiles’ back and torso, thumbs digging into his hips. He doesn’t seem in any hurry to lose his own clothes, preferring instead to mouth at Stiles’ neck, entwine their ankles. He spins them until Stiles is the one against the wall again, rubs the heel of his hand up the length of Stiles’ cock; stuttering, hesitant.

“Is this?” Scott asks against his cheek, low and unsure. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, nodding emphatically. “Absolutely, positively. But you should be naked. So naked. Right now.”

Scott always listens to Stiles eventually and this time is no exception. He kisses and tortures for another couple of minutes before he commits to any action that will bare more skin. It’s exasperating, is what it is. 

When Scott’s finally tossed his clothes onto the pile in the corner, they turn on the spray. It’s ice cold for thirty seconds, which is the ultimate dampener, and Stiles really wants to ruin the moment further by asking whether it’s still raining, because he hasn’t noticed. But it heats up, literally and metaphorically, in no time at all, and soon they’re kissing deeply, fitting perfectly together like this is something they’ve practiced. 

Stiles rubs ineffectually at Scott’s forearms, attempting to disperse the glitter, but it mostly sticks to his hands and spreads to other body parts. Scott cradles his jaw and rubs with his thumb, as if doing the same thing, but only for a little while. Mostly, he drags their bodies together tightly, sliding with the kind of grace he can only manage when no one’s looking. It feels amazing; new and illicit, Scott letting out a moan as Stiles wraps a hand around his dick and rubs experimentally. There’s an uncontrollable roll of his hips and Stiles can’t stop looking as he stretches up onto tiptoes, leg hair darkened and glistening with rivulets of water and gold metallic flakes of damnation. His muscles are all tensed and Stiles wonders what it would take to relax him, make him loose and pliant. 

He takes his time exploring, pressing his fingers and lips wherever they roam, touching the smooth, hidden places of Scott that he’s never gotten to see before. Sometimes, Scott stills; minutely, but clearly, and Stiles knows that’s something to capitalize on at a later time, when the threat of other students walking in isn’t imminent. Scott scratches his nails lightly over Stiles’ head, drags his fingers up and through his hair. He thumbs over the head of his cock, teases at his balls. He seems to be studying Stiles as much as he’s being studied, and maybe he is, maybe he’s listening into his heart. Stiles wonders what he hears --- the elation, the nervousness, the anticipation, or all of it, entangled and inseparable. 

“Can I suck you?” Scott asks, voice rough. 

“That is a question that I will never answer negatively,” Stiles says. Scott doesn’t move, so he clasps his hands on his shoulders and presses gently. “Which is a yes, by the way. A vehement one.”

“I know,” Scott says with another evil grin. “I just wanna see you desperate.”

“We don’t have time for desperate,” Stiles chides.

“Dude, I’m pretty sure that’s close to being an oxymoron. And if you call _me_ an oxymoron, that’s it, I’m not continuing.”

Stiles _loves it_ when Scott’s jokingly pushy. They’ve influenced each other in so many good and bad ways. Stiles can never decide which this is. 

“Please suck me, Scott,” Stiles says, not going loud and high-pitched like he wants to, but still contorting his expression wildly. “I want, no, I need your lips around me.” 

He’s still telling the truth as if it’s a lie. It turns out it’s a hard habit to break. Scott gets it, though. He drops down to his knees, grunts when he gets a face full of water. Stiles rests his upper back against the tiles, spreads his legs out, creates space where Scott can shelter out from under the spray. Scott’s expression is soft and loving when he looks up at Stiles, everything he’s ever wanted, and he’s so mesmerized thinking about it that he’s surprised when the tip of his cock’s engulfed in wet heat. 

Scott has no technique and Stiles doesn’t give a damn. He worries more about the occasional gagging sound that isn’t entirely masked by the shower, about the way he apparently has a low threshold for holding out when it comes to receiving blow jobs. He’s embarrassingly close to coming and all Scott’s done is swirl his tongue around the head of his cock. Stiles scrunches his eyes shut, has one hand uselessly patting Scott’s head and the other pressed tight against the still-cool tiles. He wants this to last, even though it’s ill-timed, ill-advised, and he’s ill-equipped. He wants to be able to say it didn’t take twenty pathetically short seconds before he lost it. 

Scott slides up and down him with wet smacks and pops. He alternates between pulling Stiles closer with firm hands on his buttocks and sliding a couple of his fingers against his hole. Stiles arches up every time, jaw locking tight so he won’t call out like he wants to. He’s played with himself, but it’s never felt this good. His chest expands and his throat works, but he can never get enough air. He gasps, knowing he probably sounds obscene making breathy grunts that echo in the room. His mind is hazy and his senses in overdrive. It’s as much because of Scott’s perfect sucking action as it is about the fact he wants to give this to him.

And then Scott’s mouth fucking _vibrates_ around him, and that’s it, Stiles is gone. He pulses against his tongue, hips snapping forward reflexively, whole body going taut and refusing to do as its bidden. Scott coughs and sputters and Stiles slides out of him with little regard. He flops down, feet no longer finding purchase against the tiled ground. 

They’re under the water, now, getting completely soaked. Stiles eases close to Scott and captures his face. He revels in kissing him, hot and filthy, tasting his own come. He drags one hand down to stroke Scott to completion onto to discover he’s gotten there alone. The thought that he brought Scott off so easily makes his cock twitch traitorously, convincing him he’s already ready for another round. Scott settles next to him, back against the tiles, laces their fingers together. The shower continues to beat down on their legs, doing little to sluice the glitter off their skin.

“I really hope we didn’t just miss a pop quiz,” Scott says after a lazy minute, as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. It’s perfectly natural to skip class and suck off your best friend but then worry about the class you ditched. 

“Yeah, that’d be a travesty,” Stiles deadpans. 

He flaps in Scott’s general direction with his free hand. His ass is numb and his teeth ache because he had to grind them to stop himself from screaming, but everything else is immersed in warm lassitude.

“I feel like we accomplished the opposite of what a shower’s supposed to do,” Scott says next, ignoring him. 

“Agreement. What can we do to fix that?”

“Well, obviously, we’ll have to rinse and repeat, like you said.”

Stiles grins, swings their hands up, presses a kiss against Scott’s knuckles. “Okay, but not here, because I’m not as much of an exhibitionist as my confidence and wit would have you believe.”

Scott leans in for another kiss before standing and helping Stiles up. He nips at his earlobe, speaks slowly and breathy against his ear. “I hope you realize I’m planning on retaliating. This deed will not go unpunished.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Stiles returns, suppressing a shudder. “Do your worst.”

They realize too late that they don’t have towels, and that they’re reduced to rubbing each other down with their glitter-bombed shirts. Stiles’ jeans didn’t quite make it out of the shower’s reach and are dripping wet. There’s a fearful and hilarious-if-it-were-happening-to-anyone-else hop and skip across the locker room to get to their spare gym clothes.

And Stiles also realizes that even though everything’s changed between them, nothing has too. It’s the little things. The sarcastic remarks that belie true affection, the subtle, almost imperceptible come-on, the kiss that’s a necessary point of contact.


End file.
